Diablo #1: Legacy of Blood

by Richard A. Knaak

  The King’s Shield leapt up a particularly high wave, crashing down into the water a second or two later. Kara held the rail tight, trying to see past the rain and mist. Although day had begun to give way to night, her eyes, more accustomed to seeing in the dark, let her better view what might lay ahead than any of the more experienced mariners. By now they had surely reached—even passed —the waters in which Kalkos and his comrades had perished and that meant that at any moment the entire vessel might be under attack by forces unnatural.

  “Lady Kara!” Drayko called from behind her. “It’s getting worse! You should really get below!”

  “I am fine.” Although certainly no highborn lady, the dark mage could not get the men to simply call her by her name. That had been the fault of Jeronnan, who had, on first introducing her to the crew, emphasized the title and, most important, his respect for her. What served their captain well served the crew.

  “But the storm—!”

  “Thank you for your concern, Mister Drayko.”

  He already knew better than to argue with her. “Just be careful, my lady!”

  As he battled his way back, Kara decided that the consideration she had received from Jeronnan and his men would certainly spoil her for Lut Gholein. There, she knew, she would face the prejudices far more common toward her kind. Necromancers dealt with death and most folk did not like to be reminded of their mortality nor the fact that their spirits could perhaps be affected by those like her afterward.

  Despite her refusal to Drayko, the necromancer soon decided that she could not stay at the bow much longer. The coming night, combined with the horrific weather, reduced visibility with each passing second. It was quickly coming to the point where even she would be of no use. Yet, she remained determined to stand her post as long as humanly possible.

  Up and down the waves flowed, their continual rise and fall in some ways a monotonous sight despite the spectacle of such raw power at work. Once or twice, she had spotted what she believed some sea creature and much earlier a piece of rotting wood had momentarily broken the cycle, but, other than that, Kara had little to show for her efforts. Of course, that also meant that there had been no sign of the demons, something for which the enchantress could feel grateful.

  She wiped the spray and rain from her eyes, turning her gaze one last time to the port side of the King’s Shield . More waves, more froth, more—

  An arm?

  Shifting her position, Kara peered into the dark waters, every sense alert.

  There! The arm and part of the upper body of a man. She could make out no detail—but swore she saw the waterlogged limb rise of its own accord.

  Kara had no quick spell for such a situation and so turned instead back to the deck . . . and the dwindling figure of Jeronnan’s second. “Mister Drayko! A man in the sea!”

  Fortunately, he heard her immediately. Calling to three other men, Drayko rushed up to where the necromancer stood. “Show me where!”

  “Look! Can you see him?”

  He studied the mad waters, then nodded grimly. “A head and an arm, and I think it might be moving!” Drayko shouted to the helmsman to bring the ship about, then, in a much more subdued voice, told her, “It’s unlikely that we’ll be able to save him at this point, but we’ll try.”

  She did not bother to reply, more aware of the odds than even he could be. If the nature of the balance dictated the man’s survival, he would be rescued. If not, then, like Kalkos, his soul would go on to the next plane of existence, there to fulfill another role for the balance, as taught in the teachings of Rathma.

  Of course, that same balance also dictated that where there remained hope of life, those that could had to struggle to save it. Rathma taught pragmatism, not coldheartedness.

  The storm made for rough going, but despite that the King’s Shield still managed to close in on the feebly struggling form. Unfortunately, the coming of night made the task more and more difficult as the vague figure vanished and reappeared with every new wave.

  By this time, Captain Jeronnan had joined his crew, taking over control of the situation. To Kara’s surprise, he commanded two sailors to bring bows, sailors Drayko informed her were exceptionally skilled with the weapons.

  “Does he mean them to end the man’s suffering?” she asked, startled by this side of the former officer. Kara had at least expected him to try to save the unfortunate mariner.

  “Just watch, my lady.”

  Her eyes narrowed in belated understanding as the archers quickly tied rope to their shafts. Rather than trying to simply toss a line to the man in the water, they hoped to use the shafts to better get the ropes within reach. Even with the storm, they could get more precision from using the bows than relying on hands only. A risky venture still, but one with more chance of success.

  “Hurry, blast you!” Jeronnan roared.

  The two men fired. One arrow soared far past its target, but the second came within a short distance of the rolling form.

  “Grab hold!” Drayko shouted. “Grab hold!”

  The figure made no move toward the line. Taking a terrible risk, the necromancer leaned over the rail, trying to will the floating rope closer. Perhaps if it actually touched him, he would react. Kara knew elders who could move objects simply by thinking of them, but, as with so much else, her studies in that respect had not yet reached such a point. She could only hope that her desperation combined with what abilities she had already learned might prove enough at this dire moment.

  Whether due to her desperate thoughts or merely the whims of the sea, the line came within inches of the man’s arm.

  “Grab it!” the captain encouraged.

  Suddenly, the body jerked. Awave washed over it and, for a few nerve-wracking seconds, the hapless figure vanished. Kara sighted it first, now several yards from either line.

  “Damn!” Drayko pounded his fist on the rail. “Either he’s dead or—”

  The floating form jerked again, almost going under.

  The first officer swore. “That’s not the waves doing that!”

  In growing dread Kara and the crew watched as the body bobbed twice more, then went under again.

  This time, it did not reappear.

  “The sharks’ve gotten ‘im,” one of the sailors finally muttered.

  Captain Jeronnan agreed. “Draw in the lines, lads. You did what you could. Odds were he was already dead, anyway, and we’ve got ourselves to worry about more, eh?”

  The mood dampened by the futility of their efforts, the crew slowly returned to their tasks. Mister Drayko stayed behind for a moment with Kara, who still sought some last glimpse of the lost mariner.

  “The sea claims its own,” he whispered. “We try to learn to live with it.”

  “We see it as part of an overall balance,” she returned. “but the loss of a life that might have been saved is still to be mourned.”

  “You’d best come away from there, my lady.”

  Touching the back of his hand very briefly, Kara replied, “Thank you for your concern, but I wish to remain for a moment. I will be all right.”

  With reluctance, he left her once again. Alone, the necromancer reached into her cloak and removed from around her throat a small, red icon shaped in the likeness of a fearsome dragon with blazing eyes and savage teeth. The followers of Rathma believed that the world sat upon the back of the great dragon Trag’Oul, who acted as a fulcrum and, as such, helped maintain the celestial balance. All necromancers gave their full respect to the fiery leviathan.

  Under her breath, Kara prayed that Trag’Oul would see the unknown man to the next plane of existence. She had prayed the same for the sailor Kalkos, although none of the King’s Shield ’s crew had noticed. Outsiders did not readily comprehend the place of Trag’Oul in the world.

  Satisfied that she could do no more, the slim, silvereyed woman returned to her cabin below deck. Despite her dedication to her task, Kara entered the room with much relief. Standing lookout for demons, t
hen watching the rescue attempt fail, had drained her of much of her strength. During the enchantress’s self-imposed task, she had taken only minimal breaks for her meals and had, in truth, been longer on her feet than any of the men. Now all Kara wanted to do was sleep and sleep and sleep some more.

  The cabin offered to her by Hanos Jeronnan had been originally set aside for his daughter and so the more austere Kara had to deal with ladylike frills and too-soft pillows. Unlike the crew, she also had a true bed, one secured very well to the floor in order to prevent it from sliding across the room. To further ensure her safety while she slept, the bed also had short, padded rails on each side to keep the occupant from rolling off onto the hard, wooden floor during the worst storms. Kara had already found herself grateful more than once for those rails and especially appreciated them now, so exhausted did she feel. The necromancer doubted that tonight she would have had the strength to hold on by herself.

  Throwing off the wet cloak, Kara sat on the bottom edge of the bed, trying to collect her thoughts. Despite the cloak, her garments, too, had been thoroughly soaked, from her jet-black blouse down to her leather pants and boots. The dampness of the blouse made it cling tight, chilling her further. Jeronnan had been dismayed that the necromancer had not brought any other garments with her and had insisted before the voyage on locating at least one more set of clothes. Kara had only relented when he had agreed that they would resemble her own black garments as much as possible. The teachings of Rathma did not include interest in the latest fashions; the necromancer sought only functional, durable clothing.

  Grateful now that she had given in even that much, Kara changed quickly into the second set, hanging the others to dry. She had performed the exact same ritual each night of the voyage, doing what she could to keep everything clean. Because one dealt with blood and death did not meant that cleanliness no longer became an option.

  For once, the young woman found the so soft bed a very welcome thing. The captain would have been dismayed had he known she slept fully clothed, but on a journey of this nature, Kara could take no chances. If the demons of Kalkos’s memories did materialize, she had to be ready for them immediately. Her only compromise to comfort concerned her boots, which, out of respect for Jeronnan and his daughter, she left by the bottom of the bed.

  Lantern doused, Kara Nightshadow sank deep into the bed. The wild waves actually worked to more quickly send her drifting off to sleep, rocking the weary mage back and forth, as if in a cradle. The troubles of the world began to recede . . .

  Until a faint blue light seeped through her eyelids, pulling her back from slumber.

  At first she thought it a figment of some peripheral dream, but then the gradual realization that Kara still sensed it through closed eyes even while awake set every nerve on edge. The dark mage tensed—then spun about in the bed, rising to a kneeling position with her hands pointed toward the source of the surreal illumination.

  Situated in a cabin below the waterline, Kara at first imagined that somehow the sea had finally broken through the hull. However, as the last vestiges of sleep faded from her mind, she saw instead something far more unsettling. The blue light from her dreams not only existed, but it now covered a fair portion of the side of her cabin. It had a hazy look to it, almost as if the wall had turned to mist, and pulsated continually. Kara felt her entire body tingle . . .

  Through the magical haze stepped not one but two water-soaked figures.

  She opened her mouth, whether to cast a spell or call out for help, even Kara could not be completely certain. In either case, her voice—and her body as a whole, in fact—failed her. The necromancer did not understand why until one of the dark figures held up a familiar ivory dagger, a dagger that blazed an unsettling blue each time Kara even thought of attempting anything.

  The dripping and quite dead figure of the Vizjerei sorcerer Fauztin—the gaping hole where his throat had once been only partially obscured by the collar of his cloak— grimly stared at her, his unblinking eyes silently warning Kara of the foolishness of any defiance.

  Next to him, his grinning companion shook off some of the seawater. Behind them the blue light faded away, the revenants’ magical portal vanishing with it.

  The smaller of the two undead took a step toward her, performing a mocking bow. As he did, Kara realized that it had been his body she and the crew had seen; he had been the helpless mariner. Fauztin and his friend had tricked her and the crew in order to arrange this monstrous visitation.

  The ghoul’s smile widened, yellow teeth and rotting gums now adding to the initial image of peeling skin and the wet, putrefying flesh beneath. “So . . . very good . . . to see you . . . again . . . necromancer . . .”

  If the storm did not end by the time the Hawksfire at last reached the harbor of Lut Gholein, then at least it finally eased to something approaching tolerable. For that, Norrec Vizharan gave thanks, just as he gave thanks that the ship had arrived just prior to sunrise, when most of the kingdom would still be asleep and, therefore, would not so much notice the sinister peculiarities of the dark vessel.

  The moment the Hawksfire docked, the spell cast by the armor ceased, leaving Captain Casco and Norrec to do the best they could to finish matters. The ship drew the stares of those few about, but, fortunately, it seemed that no one had noticed lines adjusting themselves nor sails lowering without physical aid.

  When finally the gangplank had been lowered, Casco made clear with his expression if not words that the time had come for his passenger to disembark—and, hopefully, never return. Norrec reached out a hand in an attempt to make some sort of peace with the skeletal, foreign mariner, but Casco glanced down at the gauntlet with his good eye, then set that same eye unblinking on the soldier’s own gaze. After a few seconds of unease, Norrec lowered the hand and quickly walked down the gangplank.

  However, a few yards from the Hawksfire, he could not help but look back one last time—and therefore saw the captain still watching him closely. For several seconds, the two stared at one another, then Casco slowly raised one hand Norrec’s way.

  The veteran fighter nodded in return. Seemingly satisfied by this minor exchange, Casco lowered his hand and turned away, now seeming intent only on inspection of his badly damaged vessel.

  Norrec had barely taken a step when someone called down to him from another direction.

  “The Hawksfire tricks fate again,” an elderly looking sea captain with almond-shaped eyes, a white tuft of beard, and weathered features remarked from the deck of his own vessel. Despite the early hour and the foul weather, he greeted Norrec with a cheerful smile. “But looks like barely, this time! Rode along with this storm, did ye?”

  The soldier only nodded.

  “Word to the wise; ye’ve been fortunate! Not every man that’s sailed her has finished the voyage! She’s bad luck, especially to her captain!”

  More so than ever, thought Norrec, although he dared not tell the other captain. He nodded again, then tried to move on, but the elderly mariner called out once more.

  “Here now! After a trip like that, ye’ve no doubt the need for a tavern! Best one’s Atma ’s! The good lady herself still runs it, even what with her husband gone now! Tell ‘em Captain Meshif said to treat ye well!”

  “Thank you,” Norrec muttered back, hoping that the short answer would satisfy the much-too-cheerful man. He wanted to be away from the docks as quickly as possible, still fearful that someone would not only recognize something amiss with the arrival of the Hawksfire but also link Norrec to it.

  Cloak drawn about him, the weary veteran hurried on, after several anxious minutes at last leaving ships and warehouses behind and entering the true, fabled Lut Gholein. He had heard tales about the kingdom often over the years, but had never visited it before. Sadun Tryst had said of it that anything a man could buy he could find here . . . and in great quantities. Ships came from all over the world, bringing in goods both legal and not. Lut Gholein represented the most open of markets, alt
hough those who ruled made certain that order was still constantly maintained.

  At no time did the entire city sleep; according to Sadun, one only had to look long enough and one would find a place willing to let those seeking exotic entertainments spend their coin no matter what the hour. Of course, those who could not keep their entertainments confined to the facilities provided still risked running afoul of the watchful eye of the Guard, who served the cause of the sultan with great fervor. Tryst himself had told some quite lurid tales of Lut Gholein’s dungeons . . .

  Despite all that had happened to him since the tomb, Norrec’s interest stirred almost immediately as he walked through the streets. All around him, gailydecorated buildings of mortar and stone rose tall, the banners of the sultan atop each. Along the astonishingly clean, cobblestone streets that stretched in every direction, the first wagons of the day began to emerge. As if sprouting from the very shadows, quick-moving figures in flowing robes began opening tents and doors in preparation for new business. Some of the wagons paused at these tents, suppliers delivering new goods to the vendors.

  The storm had dwindled now to a few dark, rumbling clouds, and with its continued lessening, Norrec’s mood lightened yet more. So far, the armor had not demanded anything more of him. Perhaps he could, for a time at least, seek his own path. In a place as vast as Lut Gholein, surely there had to be sorcerers of some repute, sorcerers who could help free him of this curse. Under the pretext of admiring the sights—an easy enough thing to do— Norrec would try to keep his eye out for any sign of possible help.

  Within moments of the dawn, the streets filled with people of all shapes, sizes, and races. Travelers from as far away as Ensteig and Khanduras walked among darkclad visitors from Kehjistan and beyond. In fact, there seemed more outsiders than locals. The varied crowd worked in Norrec’s favor, enabling him to fit in without much suspicion. Even the armor did not overly mark him, for other figures clad akin to him appeared everywhere. Some of them had clearly disembarked from ships not all that long ago, while others, especially those with the turbaned helms and elegant silver capes fluttering behind their blue-gray breastplates, obviously served the masters of this fair kingdom.